


We Traveled So Far

by Dantalionax



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Napping, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, hurt/comfort (if you squint)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 15:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19815496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dantalionax/pseuds/Dantalionax
Summary: An emergency keeps Edgar Swansea and the rest of the Pembroke staff up far past their usual bedtime. Edgar retreats, exhausted and unaware that the day's biggest surprise is yet to come...





	We Traveled So Far

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orionali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionali/gifts).



It was just passing six on a cloudy spring morning, when the men and women of the Pembroke hospital - from the lowest dishwashers to the administrator - felt the impact that came as a herald to hours of incoming mayhem.

A foundry had exploded, shooting a phantasmagoric orange ball into the sky in a mockery of the sunrise. The shockwave rattled windows across London, and startled many at Pembroke. For the administrator, he was too absorbed in his work to be bothered by anything short of a full bombing raid. Edgar Swansea's pen only stopped when the strange glow from his office windows swamped out the light from the guttering oil lamp on the desk. He was puzzled for a moment, then, realizing it could not be the sun (for several reasons) - looked up. One glance was all he needed. He threaded his pen through the orbit of that skull and re-donned his white coat with a snap of pressed linen. When he reached his office door, he paused for a moment. This would likely be his last moment of calm until the crisis passed. He breathed, deeply, making some quiet offering to whatever god would accept it. There were still a few more hours of darkness left, and regardless, he knew: Pembroke would need all hands to see her through the coming storm.

He had been a doctor long before he was a vampire, and he had a job to do.

* * *

In a parallel to the hunger that now plagued him, the sunrise fatigue was similar to mortal tiredness but out on another axis. It was far closer to being ill with influenza, where every flat surface in sight became an inviting feather-bed, yet the relief they seemed to offer would be short lived. The fever and strange aches would quickly come back and foil any attempt at truly restful slumber. He would be trapped wherever he laid, drained of the will to summon the energy to get back up, drifting around in a mental haze of spotty consciousness. His mind still felt inundated with the same sort of fog, beading up and dripping off like condensate on a chemist's watch glass. It replaced every bone and joint with a rusted spar of wrought iron. Now that the hospital had quieted some he could almost hear them knocking and squealing around with each step. The thought of having to climb the main stairs again in this state was not a welcome one.

Edgar had not been the only one of Pembroke's night staff that had weathered the storm. On the stairway up he passed Nurse Branagan on a bench, with a rare cigarette smoldering in one hand. Dr. Tippets was sitting next to her, head rested upon her shoulder. Were it not for Branagan's easy countenance, Edgar would have been worried. The old man was still enough to pass for another corpse waiting for the morgue. Instead, Branagan took an unhurried, deep drag on her cigarette and simply nodded at Edgar as he passed, settling her head in against Tippets and shutting her eyes. Fraternization was the least of anyone's present concerns.

Edgar had fully intended to collapse into the welcoming support of the red leather chair at his desk. It wasn't exactly a four-poster bed with a goose down duvet but it had already seen its fair share of Edgar's cat naps. It would serve just fine for a few hours, until dusk fell, and it was safe to collect his coat and cane and return home. At the office door, as he rummaged through his pockets for his key, he realized this would not be the case. Glaringly radiant, obnoxiously luminous and damnably bright was a blistering blaze of sunlight slashing across his shoes from the gap under the door. He had completely forgotten to close the blinds and only the glint on the brass grommets had saved him from self-immolation in full view of the staff. A decidedly bad look for the administrator of a troubled hospital, it would have been.

Troubled though she was, stinking of burning flesh and hot iron though she did, Pembroke was still his damn hospital. The fatigue and overbearing weight of the daylight had worn Edgar's sense of propriety down to nothing. Her most distinguished surgeon was not due to return for weeks still, at any rate. Not that these contemptuous day-shifters would know or care. Let them gossip, he thought, as he ran his hand over the master key. Jonathan's office would be unoccupied, heavy blackout curtains keeping the room shielded from sunlight, and that was all he needed. That it was _Jonathan's_ office was a minor personal bonus.

With a renewed but hopefully imperceptible sprightliness he stepped away from his own door and into the hallway adjacent. There, he saw another thing that slowed him down, creeping along though he felt a bit like skipping. Some inconsequential day-shifter was mopping the operating theater. Mildred? Millicent? Though he had been the one to hire her, he could not recall her name. She paused in her swipes and started walking towards Edgar, until he repelled her with a hushing and a nod at the more important presences in the hall. Dr Strickland and Dr Ackroyd were sitting back-to-back along the other wall, asleep with clipboards in their laps. Strickland had balled up a little, resting his head on his knees. His jaw had gone slack, oozing a drizzle of slobber that would put most mastiffs to shame. Ackroyd had sprawled, legs outstretched and his back arcing over Strickland with a thunderous snore. These two Edgar had no wish to alert, and shuffled the last few meters to Jonathan's office in quiet accordance.

The office was just as he had lent it. The faucet still dripped, the crack in the porcelain wash basin remained, the shelf of specimen jars was still just as dusty as it had been those months ago. Two new additions to the collection shone bright, trace light from the door illuminating the transparent amber fluid in jewel tone. Jonathan's practiced, even handwriting on the crisp labels stuck out to Edgar's eyes nearly as much. It was pristine by any standards and almost beyond belief next to the other snarls of ink and graphite in Edgar's own hand. Had he not observed Jonathan writing, Edgar would not have believed it had been labeled by a fellow physician.

The only other notable change was in the potted plant that Edgar swore was dead. Jonathan had revived it somehow. It was now verdant and green, spilling out over the pot some despite the lack of sunlight. Most importantly, the purloined hospital bed was still in place, woolen army blanket and all. Even for what it was - a room in a hospital - it was disappointingly sterile. Jonathan had lived and worked here for months, and vanished without leaving much of a trace. Feeling the weight of daylight bearing down on him ever more, he walked to the bed and sat down.

God! The desk! In his exhaustion, Edgar had almost ignored it. Even from across the room he could see that Jonathan's presence hadn't been totally transient. Textbooks were still in a towering heap on one side with a few dusty beakers clustered at the back accompanying a graveyard of cracked specimen slides in various states of preparation. The notebook on the desk was held open by a child's lead-cast soldier. A red enameled pocket watch, monogrammed in gold filigree, long fallen silent perched in one of the alcoves. There was even a large scorch mark streaking across the wood that Edgar was reasonably sure hadn't been there before. It all had him cursing his fatigue again. Were that he had the energy he would have investigated the books and objects...purely out of his professional curiosity. His personal feelings had nothing to do with it. Jonathan Reid was a rare genius, and Edgar was eager to learn from the man, any way he could.

For now, though, all he could manage was another longing glance from the other side of the room with an immense yawn. He shucked off his shoes and spotted tie, setting his glasses down on the table before giving the other objects a half-hearted throw at a nearby chair. There wasn't even enough left in him to register if they'd hit their mark or not. The wool in the blanket would have itched terribly wherever it touched, but today it was as soft and welcoming as any cashmere could be. Before he could fully recognize the smell of cedar and vanilla lingering on the pillow for what it was (Jonathan's hair oil), Edgar Swansea was asleep.

* * *

As much of an expert as Edgar was at sleeping through all the noises of the Pembroke, physical sensations would still awaken him. It could be as simple as Milton's ambulance backfiring or a window slammed too hard, but what he felt roused him immediately. So when a door opened and shut, he slept. When the bed shook and sagged with the weight of someone sitting down on it, beside him, he woke.

Of all the lunacy in the past day and a half, this was the most unexpected event by far.

"Jon--Jonathan?" Edgar yawned. Jonathan Reid stared back down at him, sculpted features softened by a small smile and exhaustion.

"My God! I'm sorry, I just- You're not due back-" Edgar stammered, trying to rouse himself and save himself as much embarrassment as he could. Instead of letting him sit up, Jonathan placed a hand on Edgar's shoulder and gave him a gentle push down, shaking his head. "It's alright, Edgar. I heard. Just... move over, a little, would you?"

Edgar was almost too mortified to hear it. Once the shock had surrendered its control, Edgar realized Jonathan hadn't asked him to leave. It could have been politeness, but the action it accompanied was a clearer indication that he had spoken plain and true. Terrible at reading faces and visually disadvantaged without his glasses though he was, Jonathan seemed to be looking upon him with only the slightest bit of bemusement. Though, as a doctor and then administrator himself, Edgar knew the smaller signs that marked an exhausted physician. These tells were rolling off of Jonathan, buffeting Edgar as sure as the shockwave had that morning. So convinced, he moved over.

He heard Jonathan discard his shoes, and felt the worn-down springs rock as he settled in alongside him. Edgar was already drifting back to sleep again when Jonathan's arm swung over him, hooking his elbow over Edgar's waist. From how he tensed it could have been a deadly adder slithering around the bed. Jonathan's hand patted around blindly, clearly in search of something. Edgar shifted his own arm in confusion at what the strip of bare mattress could be hiding.

Were he not so tired, he would have frozen up again when the viper struck. As it was, Jonathan's hand coiled about his forearm. It felt its way up, finally settling around Edgar's hand, thumb dragging slow lines across the back of his wrist. With no induced tension from these caresses, Jonathan felt safe to bring his knees up behind Edgar's thighs, body now circumscribing a protective arc. "What's wrong?" Edgar barely dared ask in a low whisper. This sudden burst of physicality from Jonathan was strange. He should have been afraid, caught in a painful twist of embarrassment and shock at the man's presence - in Europe at all, let alone in bed beside him. He hadn't expected him back from the Americas for at least a week still, maybe more. Or ever, realistically. When Edgar received that telegram (of all things) stating all was well in Scotland and informing him of his intentions to spend time traveling with the Lady, it seemed all too obvious what he had meant. Jonathan, with Lady Ashbury at his side, had mastered this condition. He would find a position in America more fitting of his qualifications, and the next Edgar would hear would be his resignation. He couldn't have expected Jonathan to remain at Pembroke and spend his career treating the same cases of rickets and tuberculosis found in every city hospital. He was capable of much more important, more prestigious things, and seemed destined to change the world. There was nothing here that felt worthy of Jonathan's attentions.

Despite that, Jonathan was here. Edgar gave his hand a gentle squeeze just to be certain.

"What happened? Where is Lady Ashbury?" He asked in the same hushed tone. At that, Jonathan bowed his head, resting it on the plane of Edgar's back, deflating with a groan that approached a snarl.

"Canada, I believe, she said." He sounded more defeated in that admission than Edgar had ever heard him. It was something raw and fresh, Jonathan still smelled of saltwater and diesel fumes. Had he come straight from the port? Edgar opened his mouth to ask another question, but instead only yawned. Jonathan's thumb had settled from its wandering, resting in Edgar's palm, replacing the slow arcs with the barely perceptible flicker and flow of his pulse. Jonathan's breathing, slow and steady, was now the dominant noise in the room. Edgar had a thousand questions for Jonathan, but the dull ache in his bones from the relentless sun still overhead was too great to ignore. The strange feeling of the other man beside him, so alarming minutes before, became soothing and safe. He shifted in, settling further into Jonathan's arms, feeling the broad plane of his chest against his back, and yawned once more.

They could talk tonight. For now, they slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a song


End file.
